Sleeping Dogs
by Lilituism
Summary: "I just have to ask, Thomas. Given the circumstances, could it have been a werewolf?" "Don't be ridiculous, Abdul. Werewolves have been extinct in the British Isles for over two centuries. There's no reason to worry about that." As much as Peter respects Nightingale's expertise in these matters, this time he would like to differ. (Pre-Slash)


**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Obviously.

 **AN:** (cross-posted on AO3)

It's been years since I last posted a story. This is so exciting! *squee*

Ahem, anyway. This began as a one-shot - small, cuddly and complete. Then the bastard grew and grew and I'm currently writing Chapter 4. Go figure.

Still, I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing this glorious mess.

I should probably note that this whole thing is un-beta'd and while my English is pretty good I'm not a native speaker. So, if you find any grievious mistakes, please tell me, so I can fix it. (And if someone wants to be my beta on this ride, give me a shout.)

Now. Without much further ado, I present you Sleeping Dogs.

 **Chapter 1: Dog Fight**

It was a bloody mess. All of it.

After Skygarden – and I was trying very hard to forget the whole affair ever happened, thank you very much – things got complicated. The guys from Professional Standards were breathing down our neck because of _her_ , DCI Seawoll refused to speak with us or maybe just me, I wasn't sure about that yet and the freaky side of London was in an uproar. A whole tsunami wave of magic had flooded the city when the Tower had come down and released its stores of power. For us, meaning the Falcon Unit - which sounded like something from a comic book, but I secretly thought it was cool - it meant a doubling in cases of weird shit going down.

In other words I was running myself ragged, the paperwork was beginning to resemble a mountain range and Nightingale was in a constant bad mood. Not that I could really blame him, after all every time the higher-ups got into a fizz because of magically exploding sardine cans, a haunted school bus or our still missing reports on all of the above, it was Nightingale who had to field their calls. It had gone so far that I jokingly suggested we disconnect the Folly's phone line and I was almost certain that he honestly considered it for a moment.

In summary it was a bloody great mess. And that was only work-related. In our – dare I say it – domestic setting things weren't much better.

Me and the Inspector were both more snappish than usual which made training a real joy. At the same time, though, the empty chair at our table as well as the room everyone including Molly avoided like the Plague made it painfully clear that there were only us left. It was like a festering wound and I for my part felt an acute and quite irrational need to stay close to Nightingale. Just to make sure, you know? People could be gone so very quickly.

He seemed to bear my hovering with good grace and maybe, possibly some relief as well. In return I tried to be as non-clingy as I could manage. And if I noticed that he spent more time in the tech cave watching rugby than before, then I didn't see a need to call him out on it. Besides, I did enjoy his company, as crazy as that sounds considering he's my governor.

So that was the state of affairs when my cell rang at 6:15 in the morning. DS Stephanopoulos greeted me with her usual gruff voice and told me to swing my backside out of bed. There was some actual police work going down near Covent Garden and yours truly was needed to hopefully rule out another Falcon connection. Considering I had only fallen into said bed two hours before after fighting a losing battle against Mount Paperwork I wasn't exactly thrilled.

Still it's my job, so I wistfully got up, left a message for the Inspector and took the Asbo across town.

The Met cars were parked in an orchestrated chaos in front of a high-end building with seriously expensive flats. Modern and soulless the building stood squeezed into a street corner as if the architects had found themselves with more building than available space. I shook my head at such an atrocity and walked over to the closest PC.

The constable, a young white guy I vaguely remembered from some case the week before directed me to the third floor. Inside the building was as soulless as its outward appearance. White walls, glinting metal stairs, large windows with thin metal frames. I trudged up the steps feeling oddly guilty for leaving dirty boot-prints on the white-tiled floor.

When I got to the third floor I didn't have to look for the right apartment. The white wooden door was wide open, the lock obviously busted. I had seen similar damage before when the first officers on scene decided on a forced entry.

I walked over, preparing myself to look as awake as possible and hoping that this didn't turn out to be my kind of investigation. Stepping into the apartment I surveyed my surroundings closely. It was a modern, white walled and tiled space with hardly a personal touch in sight. No picture frames, no knick-knacks, no deco pieces. It was cold, distant and sterile. But that wasn't what grabbed my attention the moment I stepped across the threshold. Not at all.

I had barely set foot in the apartment that the vestigia sent me reeling. Feral anger flooded my senses followed by paralysing fear. A warning growl, a high shrieking laugh full of malice. The smell of wet fur and moss, of overly sweet flowers and sour milk, all mixed curiously with a whiff of expensive aftershave.

I blinked slowly to suddenly find DS Miriam Stephanopoulos right in front of my face peering at me through narrowed eyes. Looking past her I found myself leaning awkwardly against the wall and realised that I must have stumbled into it like a drunk when the vestigia hit. Now Stephanopoulos was looking me up and down in a very has-he-finally-snapped kind of way, but I like to think I also detected a bit concern there.

"Sorry", I said, pushing off the wall and brushing myself off. "Definitely one of ours."

The sergeant frowned unhappily, but nodded. "I thought you might say that. When we walked in here, we all felt bloody uncomfortable. Figured I might as well call you in. Even if it looks pretty cut and dry."

"It does? What happened?" She handed me a noddy suit that I somehow wrestled into, then she led me into what must have been the living room and I tried to ignore the slight dizziness that still clung to me. Must have been a combination of too little sleep and a whammy of vestigia.

I shook my head and concentrated on the grisly scene I had stepped into.

Against a formerly off-white sofa lay a woman. Or at least what I thought might have been a woman once. She was mauled. Strips of flesh were ripped away and where her face had been was only bloody pulp. Blood pooled around her while smears and splatters decorated the whole eastern wall. I looked to Stephanopoulos seriously wondering what about the carnage she felt to be cut and dry.

"Lydia Chesterfield, 34. Neighbours reported a heated argument between her and her husband, Rupert Chesterfield. Not the first argument either. A Mr. Egdware, next-door neighbour finally called it in. That was 2 hours ago. The first officers on scene found a silent apartment, only a dog barking and growling when they knocked. Given the neighbour's description of threats and screams, they broke open the door, fended off the family's pet – some large wolfhound or something - and found her like this. The husband is missing, we're already out looking for him. Dog's locked in the bathroom. BARTA's on their way."

I nodded. BARTA was the British Animal Rescue and Trauma Care Association. I had never worked with them before, but it made sense that they'd come out for this one.

"You think the dog did it?" I asked just be sure.

"What else? Look at this mess."

True. "And the husband ran when it happened." I concluded more than asked.

"It's likely. Hell, maybe he even set the beast on his wife, who knows. Fact is he's not here and he didn't call 999."

We were silent for a moment and watched the forensics guys bustle around the scene.

It made sense. Mummy and daddy argue, the dog thinks his master is threatened or maybe the guy even ordered it to attack. The animal flips, mauls the woman, the man panics and flees the scene. Case solved. Well, almost.

It was a good theory, but it didn't explain the amount of vestigia that covered the apartment like a heavy blanket.

"Any sign that he might have been a practitioner? Or she? Or hell, the dog? Any books, strange objects, anything?"

Stephanopoulos glared at me, but shook her head.

So I told her I'd like to have a look around and she left me to do my thing. By now I had a tried and trusted strategy when it came to uncanny crime scenes. Start with the body – check. Look for vestigia in the area – big check. Go through the books and personal objects to see if something screams evil magical overlord. Which was what I concentrated on now.

I was through half the shelves by the time BARTA arrived. They hadn't many books, mostly light romance novels, a bit of financial textbooks and a couple for dog owners, but nothing that jumped out at me, figuratively or literally, you never know.

From what I believed to be the bathroom I heard furious barking and turned. A painfully young constable, white guy with a seriously pale complexion who I'd never seen before was trying desperately to hold on to a huge dirty grey dog. It had sleek half-long fur, a long snout with quite long and sharp-looking teeth and mad hazel eyes. And it was furious. Twisting left and right, its jaws snapping madly at the constable's hands.

From the hall I heard the BARTA guys curse, then they carefully came closer to try and help. From what I could see I gathered that young-over-eager constable boy wanted to impress his boss and hand over the likely murder weapon – living and livid as it was.

I wasn't the only one who could see the catastrophe forming. Stephanopoulos ordered her people to stand back and close the bloody apartment door. And yours truly? Well, before I could really think about it I stupidly took a step forward. I honestly can't say what I expected to do to help, but I never got a chance to find out anyway.

In that very moment the dog managed to break the officer's hold. But instead of turning on the scared kid it rushed forward towards the closing apartment door. It didn't get there. An obstacle stood in its way. Unfortunately said obstacle happened to be me.

It all happened so quickly that all I managed to do was raise my arms in front of my body to protect my neck and head. A reflex that probably saved my life.

The dog crashed into me in a flurry of bristling fur and flying slobber. It felt like being hit by a car. A car with teeth. Amidst shouts and yells and falling backwards the beast closed it jaws around my left forearm. Pain shot through me like an arrow and I must have screamed, though I can't remember for sure. I landed hard on the floor, the weight of the dog pushing me down. My head bounced off the ground adding a counterpoint to the pain in my arm. I felt dizzy.

The beast was snarling around its hold on me. I could feel its teeth scratch my bones and I was sure it was going to rip my arm off entirely. I could feel the sour taste of bile rising, but forced it back down. It wouldn't help anyone if I puked on the dog and likely managed to choke myself.

My sense of time became blurred, but one memory stood out, one rule Nightingale had drilled into me. Never do magic with a possible head injury. It was one of the first rules he had set for me as an apprentice. It was good rule. Seeing as magic alone could turn a brain into a withered vegetable.

But considering the alternative of death and dismemberment I decided it was acceptable to make an exception.

Concentrating as best as I could and given the situation that wasn't much, I grappled with the correct forma and let got. Not even I could miss at this close-up distance. The fireball hit the beast right in the juncture of neck and chest. It ripped through fur and tissue and fur again and left a scorch mark on the ceiling. But I only learned about that much later.

The dog's grip loosened with a pained whine and it collapsed on top of me, while I in turn flopped back, completely wiped out. The whole desperate struggle hadn't taken more than a minute or two at most, but I felt as if I had gone seven rounds with Mike Tyson and lost.

My arm was throbbing fiercely and the pain was echoed by my head. I felt woozy and found it hard to draw a deep breath. Black spots were dancing in my vision. The voices of Stephanopoulos and the others were strangely muted and I couldn't make sense of what they were saying.

Someone pulled the dead beast off me and breathing became easier again. I wanted to thank them, but my tongue felt heavy in my mouth and I couldn't form the words.

Stephanopoulos's face swam into focus. Her lips were moving, but all I could hear was a strange rushing sound.

Then a hand touched my injured arm and this time I am certain I screamed. Which was the final straw as far as my body was concerned and I didn't really feel guilty about passing out and letting others deal with the mess.


End file.
